


how to move a mountain impasse

by Spylace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dean as Michael's sword, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ask and you shall receive; Dean’s soul is worth two hamburgers, a bottle of beer, and a heart-to-heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to move a mountain impasse

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from LJ
> 
> Exploring Dean's role as Michael's sword

Castiel lands in one of Dean’s many leaf piles when Raphael casts him from heaven. It hurts. He blinks, unsure if the man is more upset about his rumpled appearance or because he has scattered the painstakingly gathered leaves all across the yard. But he is quickly pulled to his feet and carried into a truck just as the screaming starts, the vehicle as unfamiliar as hunter’s status as a retiree.   
  
“Cas, what the _hell_...?!”  
  
He cuts his wrist, dribbling blood all over the fake leather. Again, there is more yelling. Exhausted, Castiel closes his eyes and passes out.   
  
When he awakes, he is alone. He doesn’t have to wait long; Dean returns by nightfall bearing sustenance and the familiar purr of the impala. Already, there are sigils painted across the cracked windowpane hiding them from the eyes of his brothers and sisters. But he feels safer with Dean near, in the same room surrounded by peeling wall paper and mold. The angel stares through the leather, the cloth, the flesh and the blood—at his ribs riddled in Enochian and his soul stamped with the mark of his hand.   
  
“You awake now?”   
  
Glad and relieved all at once, he doesn’t mind the curt greeting and the sudden appearance of beer in his hands. Dean sits down on the opposite bed; their knees almost touching as he downs his bottle in one long swallow. Castiel follows the movements of the man’s throat and attempts to do the same. He only finishes about half.  
  
“I’m in the doghouse tonight thanks to you.” Dean starts on the second bottle. Immediately, he is fascinated by the careless flick of the wrist and the silver ring popping the cap off. “I told Lisa it was over then you had to show up...” The hunter trails off before continuing, “’s not that I’m not happy to see you Cas, I am, really. But what, you gotta go ten rounds with a friggin’ ninja turtle before you can fly by for a visit?”  
  
Startled, Castiel lets out “—How did you...”  
  
The man snorts disparagingly, pinning him with a weary look. “I’m not an idiot.”   
  
The angel wilts a little.   
  
“I apologize; I thought you would prefer if I stayed away.”  
  
“Why would I?” Dean asks blankly, staring at the band of silver on his thumb. “It was Sam’s idea, I’m only trying because...”  
  
They sit together quietly for a long time, until he is finally asked why he came after all this time. He answers honestly and Dean can read the truth written in the lines of his face. The man seems to be genuinely pleased by the prospect of impossibility and toasts to angels and their ubiquitous ‘ _douchebaggery_ ’. Castiel would be more offended had he not spotted the bag of hamburgers set off to the side.   
  
“Why me?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He says that a lot lately. To the angels who approached him when he appeared in their midst, to Rachel who wanted to know what they were supposed to do. Dean hands him a burger, two meat patties, a slice of cheese, pickles, tomato and special sauce. He bites into it and it is delicious.   
  
Within seconds, it’s gone. Castiel wants to ask for another but that’s not what he really wants—it’s not what he needs. He doesn’t know how to ask Dean; he isn’t sure he wants to. From the self-destructive glint in the man’s eyes, he remembers his time as a human, helpless and in pain, at the mercy of his doctors and nurses who clicked their tongues at his lack of identity and cash, withholding opiates by degrees until he’d been well enough to call Dean.   
  
The act of holding his breath would be much more significant had he actually required air.   
  
“I... I need your soul.”  
  
Silence  
  
Uncomfortable, Dean clears his throat.   
  
“Feeling a little... crowded here.”  
  
Snagging another hamburger, Castiel shuffles back. This time the meat is slightly spicier with a smoky flavor. He decides that it’s interesting but not as good as the first; he patiently consumes a stray onion ring and licks his fingers. Suddenly, Dean laughs, hoarse and breathless.   
  
“Will it hurt?”  
  
He crumples up the wrapping, his face distorted on the shiny foil.   
  
“Yes.”

  


…

  
“Michael?”

Raphael recognizes the sword, everyone does. How could they not? He twists it in his brother’s back and he can feel the blade, Dean, sing in his hands—enveloped in the archangel’s godly grace.

When Raphael dies, he does not disappear in a sudden explosion of light. This is heaven, his form no more than a concept and courtesy to its occupants. Donnie Finnerman is back on Earth, in a ward, unable to even lift a spoon. When Raphael dies, he collapses on himself like a dying nova and implodes, scalding them all in his brilliance. Castiel leaves the other angels dazed and confused, a bitten warning not to follow in his brother’s footsteps.

And he disappears.

For a while, he is at a loss what to do with Dean’s body. It is intact and whole, barely stiff with residual warmth—almost alive except for the missing soul. In the end, he inters the hunter’s body on a bluff overlooking the shores from which the first fish crawled onto land millions and millions of years ago.

Castiel has no idea if he likes it, but Dean remains unnervingly quiet, the sword is quiet and the soul is quiet. Sometimes it bursts into flames for no good reason, the two-toned flickers like a code he can’t quite decipher. Often, it sits heavily between his wings like a piece of armor, atonement for failing to return home. Whenever he isn’t being challenged by members of Raphael’s ruined faction, keeping the lower realms from colliding or looking for a way to save Sam and Adam’s souls, he lays the sword across his knee and cleans it.

Once, he cuts his finger and lets his blood flow across the silver blade. The sword heats up like it is being reforged; he drops it in his lap where it burns his thighs and lays stripes on his skin. He wonders if this is punishment for slaying his brother and feels the bitter irony when he hears an all too familiar voice fill his head.

‘Is it considered knife play if you do it yourself?’

The question is wrong, it should be ‘ _what the hell did you do?_ ’ or even ‘d _ammit Cas!_ ’.

He answers, “I don’t know.” And that is all that Dean wants from him.

  


…

  
They hunt because Dean is Michael’s sword but is a soul and therefore sentient and very loud inside his head. Dean also makes him do things he would rather not do like drinking ten shots in a row without falling over because where is the challenge? But the hunter, the sword, the soul, loved his life as best he could and lived it. Castiel can only try to do the same.

After cleaning out a den of werewolves, he eats a burger from a stop on a highway. Dean complains about being unable to eat and sulks when he lists the ingredients from lettuce to the fried chicken. Castiel never tries the fries like Dean asks, nor does he order milkshakes, sundaes or other things that have to be sucked through a straw.

‘Cas?’

“Yes Dean?”

‘’m glad you came for me.’

Castiel smiles and asks the waitress for an ‘ _oyster burger_ ’.  
 

 

…

  
Barring the fae ‘— _seriously no, I hate those little fuckers_ ’, they have exhausted all avenues of resurrecting Sam and Adam Winchester from their untimely grave. He and Dean head back to heaven.

At their appearance, all angels yield to his grace. Since it has been made _painfully_ clear to both that angels off active duty had nothing to do except sit around on their metaphysical thumbs, he wastes no time setting them to work. He rearranges the garrisons into taking shifts, saving people and hunting things.

The death toll of hunters goes down significantly during this time. Dean glows white like the crown of the sun, barely dimmed when Castiel solemnly reminds him that balances must be kept. On the eve of his death and rebirth as Michael’s sword, Dean asks him to send Bobby a gift. Rachel finds him a battered copy of the _Necronomicon_.

Castiel wishes that he could change the perception of human beings just for a day, just so Dean can greet his adopted father as more than a bolt of steel. He doesn’t tell Dean that Bobby cried. He think he knows anyways.

 

…

  
‘Nice?’

In heaven, Dean has little more freedom. Not that it matters where wheels with a thousand eyes and cherubs with four different faces are the norm. Castiel leads him into a small room, away from the throne of heaven and the divine court.

“This is my father’s room.”

Dean looks around in surprise.

‘Your father lives on the set of _Godfather_?’

Castiel does not understand the reference. Doubtless, it was one of the many movies Dean has promised to show him.

“You were born here.” He pauses, “We all were.”

‘Huh’

Fingers brush past priceless literature and the nonexistent layer of dust. Dean looks around as though trying to place the room in his memory. He pulls out a _Beaches_ video stuck precariously on a shelf. ‘Anything that can help us?’

“I don’t know.”

And he goes to stand next to him, a wan, half-smile on his face.

Dean grins.

‘We’ve got work to do.’


End file.
